


For Hire.

by appetency



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Clairvoyance, F/M, M/M, Mutants, Psychic Abilities, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, so here's this i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5914141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appetency/pseuds/appetency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never wanted to meet your soulmate. You already knew that you wouldn't like them; that's what your abilities were for, and they never lied. They told you that you were better off this way.</p><p>[Deadpool x Reader. Soulmate!AU feat. Psychic!Reader.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your soulmate made you nervous. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

No, you had never met the guy. Girl? Person? Whomever they were, they remained a mystery to you and you preferred to keep it that way. You always wore long sleeves, and during the summer you just tried to avoid looking left so you wouldn't see the messy phrase scrawled onto your shoulder out of the corner of your eye. "Honeybunch, I'm home!" it whispered to your ear, in a way that was close to cruel in its humor. But it wasn't their first words that put you off, it was the visions that came along with them.

Your precognition reared its head when you were fifteen and you predicted your history teacher's death a week early. Clairvoyance followed soon after, and at first, you wanted nothing to do with either. Because you were a mutant, you weren't wanted, you had to get rid of them somehow before angry mobs got rid of you. As far as you could tell, though, your abilities were like shadows and there was no way to rid yourself of them, so you resolved yourself to making do with what you had. Before long they had begun to grow on you, and not much time had passed after graduation until you learned three important lessons: there were always going to be people who liked early preparation, these were the kinds of people who tended to search for you, and that these were also the kinds of people whom you could profit off of.

So you were luckier than most mutants, in that sense.

And then it wasn't before long before you started seeing them. Your soulmate. You had no idea what they looked like, but every so often you would get flashes of blood, metal, and white eyes. The worst dreams were the ones when you would receive glimpses of the world through their eyes. They were usually either of a disgusting couch with stains of who-knows-what, different floors that all had blood and limbs scattered like toys in a children's room, or of a towel hung up to cover a bathroom mirror. Sometimes you would see strip clubs.

These visions told you a lot more about your soulmate than they ever could refute, so you actively tried to avoid them. It didn't quite work out like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kinda trying out a new thing here, I’m thinking of writing shorter chapters but more of them. I think that might allow me to post more often? I guess we’ll see how it goes.
> 
> Also, I'm probably getting ahead of myself, because I'm writing waaaay too many AUs. It's probably just gonna get worse now that I'm self-aware.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a slow day at your shop. You were in the aftermath of a terrible storm. Slow pitter-patters on the roof counted the passing time (three drops every second), and the blue neon glow of your sign ("Psychic," it shouted) shone through the fog that shrouded the rest of the dark, damp alley. 

You weren't expected anyone that day, least of all a stranger in a soaked red-and-black costume that covered him from head to toe. You should have recognized the white eyes of his mask. A tell-tale tingle of immediate danger racked your spine and you started to duck behind the counter. And then they pulled out a gun and addressed you. His words knocked the breath out of your lungs. 

**"Honeybunch, I'm home!"**

You were already crouched behind the counter by the time his finger pulled on the trigger. The floor shook as his fired bullets cut into the wood shielding you and sent splinters flying. You squeaked and scrambled away until the wall was pressed against your back. It forced you in the same room as this nutjob who had ruined the routine of your life without much effort on his part. You covered your head with your arm and shouted above the noise. 

**"Wait, wait! Stop shooting. I haven't -- I haven't done anything!"**

The gunshots stopped. You didn't need a vision to know that he had lowered his weapon. Your muscles were shaking and your eyes were screwed shut. All you could hear was your heart pumping against your ribs and his approaching footsteps. 

"Well, damn. Good thing you said something, 'cause how shitty would it be if that bullet hit, right?" He sauntered around the corner of the counter. You looked up at him. Even with that defensive and petrified look in your eyes, he had to admit, you were _cute_. Whoever came up with this whole soulmate thing must have been smiling down on him. He crouched down so his face was level with yours. 

"Hey there."


	3. Chapter 3

You were sitting up on your ruined counter, cradling a handful of splinters and worries, while he paced back and forth. For the most part, you had been able to tune out his raving and wild gestures, but some of the things that came out of his mouth were so unusual that you couldn’t help but turn your attention to him for a few moments.

“I mean, the guy who hired me to kill you said you were a real piece of work and I thought he was right. I think psychics usually are. ‘Cause, is that stuff even real? ...Quick, what’s the next thing I’m gonna say? --”

This was record-breaking rambling, even for Wade. It was his way of dealing with the unexpected, and this was just about the furthest thing out of left field that could have happened to him. And, truthfully, he was caught in a standstill.What was he supposed to do now? How the ever-loving fuck can you prepare to meet your soulmate? Not by taking a short at them, that was clear even to someone less romantically-adept like him.

“-- Where’s your tattoo? Is it on your ass? That’d be pretty hot, actually, I hope it’s on your ass. Mine’s on my shoulder blades --”

He couldn’t finish his mission, not anymore. Not if you were destined by some holy immortal matchmaker to be in love, because that was the one thing that Wade was desperate for. And now that he had actually met you, a gut feeling told him that you didn’t seem like the type to deserve death -- not by a long shot. That was his one big policy: he only killed those who had it coming.

Looking at you now, you seemed liked the cutest damn thing. Apart from the emotional distress, which Wade would feel guilt over for a long time after. You were quiet up there on your spot on the counter, eyes fixed down on some wooden chips. The way you were staring at them, he would’ve thought you were mourning dead fairies. His words faded like the end of a song played on the radio as he was overcome with a strange impulse to wrap you up in his arms and hold you until you forgot about your poor fairies and let them drop to the ground.

“I want you to leave. I don’t care who you are, because I never asked for this.” It was you who spoke this time. Your voice started out soft, but grew stronger with each syllable until you were frothing with fury and angry self-pity. “You tried to kill me. You know how shitty that makes this soulmate deal for me? I just want someone normal, so forget about me and leave.”

Wade had to admit, that hurt, and a lot more than if you had taken his gun and shot him on the spot. He would’ve let you do that, because at least then you would be even. So he left, like you asked him to, but not without a “See ya, sweetcheeks,” and a wink through his mask. He couldn’t go without a parting gift, after all.

(You knew that he would be back in a few days' time, and you weren't happy about it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just saw all the comments on this thing and uwu !!!  
> You guys are the sweetest ever, but be warned, you're feeding my writer's ego.


	4. Chapter 4

He was back two nights later, like you thought he would be, knocking at your window for fifteen minutes straight. You were horrified from the first thirty seconds, and you had closed the dark purple curtains over the window after two minutes. You had seen him standing in puddles of blood on your fire escape with a missing arm – his whole arm, clean off – on your way to the bathroom. He had waved when you had caught sight of him and when you screamed, his smile didn’t even waver.

Who knew how long he had been standing there, the creep? (Wade would tell you later that, honestly, he was only there for a minute. He just didn’t draw your attention because he was so ‘entranced’ in seeing you in your natural state.) He started knocking only once you had seen him and his blood-stained fingers tinted the glass red. When the sun shone through it later that day, its rays would be colored bright orange on your floor.

You had really, really tried to ignore him. You considered calling the cops, but authority didn’t tend to trust the city’s local psychic, so that was off the table. Your soulmate was lucky that you had an impending headache to deal with that worried you more than he did, because you would do anything to avoid that. ‘Anything’ included letting him in just to get him to stop that damn pounding.

You hurried over and pulled back the curtains in one furious swoop. You unlatched the window and he pushed it open before you could.

“Hey, sweetums! My name’s Wade, but you can call me tonight.” His sharp, haughty voice cut through your brain. Your fingers danced at your temple, rubbing, because letting him in was worse than leaving him outside. He didn’t seem to notice and just continued to talk. “It’s supposed to rain, I was worried you’d leave me out there. But you wouldn’t do that to me, right? … Although I’m sure you wouldn’t have minded if my suit got soaking wet and stuck to my abs. You wanna see that, sugar?” 

You were wrong. Wade did notice, but what was he supposed to do? You had made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with him. He always had told himself to expect a reaction like that, but he didn’t think it would be this hard for him to forget about you.

You, meanwhile, were too busy dealing with the flashes flitting in front of your eyes like a flipbook. You registered his name, Wade, amidst images of a tall, pale man with a torso that seemed to wide for his legs, games of poker, and your hands covered in blood and hovering over a different pale, pink torso. These visions were the worst, because you had no control over them. They came and went as they pleased with no regard for you; the future didn’t care if you were hurt, simply because it knew that you had to take what it gave you.

Wade’s voice quieted while he observed you, doubling over and groaning. His remaining hand reached out to pat your shoulder and you couldn’t do anything but let him. His face brightened at that through the mask. His touched developed into a gentle rub. 

“Please go. You can’t be here right now,” you worked out through your gritted teeth. All he heard was “… go… now…”, which was enough. Even he could recognize that this was a bad situation, one that he couldn’t force himself into, so he left. He could still remember the feel of your skin felt through his suit and the smell of flowers in your apartment for hours after.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, plot. And also reluctant hugs.

There was a knock on your door, and it wasn't Wade. You had thought at first that someone had taped a photograph to the peephole, as some kind of cruel joke, but it was blinking so he must have been real. There was a clean-shaven man with well-cared for blonde hair staring back into the hole with his sharp green eyes that had crow's feet scratched in around the edges. You knew who he was -- and you didn't need your clairvoyance for that, you had met him many times before -- but you never found out what his real name was; he had told you to call him Jack. You remembered him wearing a friendly, charismatic mask when he had sat across from you at poker and blackjack tables so long ago, but now that there was no one to impress his point-blank and unwavering glower almost welled up a shriek in your lungs.

And then, although you couldn't see it, his fist must have come up and slammed the wood of your door three times. The loud rumble shook the wall and the heart out of your chest. You scrambled back and through your haze, you could hear that he shouted something to you. His words were unclear, but you would be willing to bet that he was promising you an impending death.

You already knew that he wouldn't keep to his word, and that somehow, he instead would be soon enough dead. But you didn't know how so you sank to the floor, cradling your legs to your chest and washing them over with your shallow breathing. One sob wracked your ribs -- how had he found you? You thought you were more careful than this. You were supposed to be more careful than these, and now you would die -- and you pressed your palms into your closed eyes like the fireworks behind your lids could make you forget. Your heartbeat began to time the seconds to the death that you expected.

One hundred seventy-two thousand and eight hundred seconds later, Wade came back and he was covered in blood yet again. His new arm held onto a gun, which you knew was empty. The pieces were being put together in your head and you had an idea of what he could say even before he opened his mouth -- not that that would stop him from giving you an exaggerated explanation.

"You know that the asshole who hired me came to your apartment a few days ago?" he slung his gun back in his holster like it was a toy, "Don't you worry about him, because I killed him good for you. You're safe now." You hated how his voice softened around the edges, and how his irritating voice grated the look in your eyes to something softer, too.

He had killed your nightmare for you so you didn't have to, and there weren't many people who could say that for their soulmate. Still, you snapped back, "You think more death will make me run into your arms?"

"You can pay me back in a thank you at least! I just solved half the problems biting you in the behind."

He did, and it was almost too easy for you. You opened your mouth and a cracked first syllable slipped out, hitting him in the center of his chest. "Oh, baby, no. Don't cry, c'mon over here."

"I'm not fucking crying," you tried to tell him, but his arms were already around you and cradling you close to him. You didn't bother pushing him away and laid your head on his shoulder.

Later that evening, you made an abrupt promise to him that you would try to be okay and you made another to yourself that you'd never mention this again. One or the other would eventually break, and you were reluctant to look ahead and see which one.


	6. Chapter 6

"What the hell is in _that_?" Wade paused his rambling to direct that question to you. He was up on the counter, next to the register, and dangling his legs over the edge.

"Herbal tea. If I put them in jars and leave them around the store, it adds to the aesthetic," you answered as you organized the various knick-knacks trimming the shelves lining your walls. You replaced a flourescent purple jar that clinked with deep blue glass flasks and pine green perfume bottles that you emptied of their contents. They were useless, but such 'mysterious' ornaments added to your public repertoire as a classic psychic.

You had gotten used to Wade's visits, although this was the first time he used your door instead of cramming himself through your window and tumbling into a heap on the floor. On the occasion, he toppled the wrong way, hit the pavement with a resounding crack that you could hear from your room, and would have to scale all the way up the brick wall again.

Every time you heard him scramble outside your window you were filled with an annoyance rather than freezing horror. He was a nuisance, just a nuisance, a nuisance and nothing more. It was made clear to him, and he knew that you were ignoring your embrace from the week before with a purpose. He tried to hug you again only once, two days after that first time, and you distanced him with a threat and a hard hit to the chest. (He refrained from telling you how downright adorable your punch was.)

"Can you smoke it?"

"You can't get high off of chamomile, Wade."

"How would you know? You've never _tried_."

"I don't have to try to know. That's part of being psychic."

"Riiiiight, psychic. Sometimes I forget, you're so humble about it. It would be cooler if you did something when you saw the future, like if your eyes flashed a different color or if you blew something up. So, anyway, what did you see about _me_ that you hate so much?"

Your witty retort caught in your throat and you were stuck with your lips parted and eyebrows raised. This was different than the rest of his prattling, and if you were friends you might have asked him why he sounded bitter.

He wouldn't admit to being bitter, but Wade was a simple man. He just needed his guns, a couch, a take-out menu, and someone to talk to. (You? Maybe. It didn't seem that way then.) He didn't expect you to return whatever feelings he may have had for you, but you could have acknowledged that you were _destined_ by the _universe_ to be together and then rejected him outright despite that. At least that way, he would know where he stood and could stop falling out of windows for you. He would keep watching your door at night from the abandoned warehouse next door to prevent Goreman's lackeys from finishing you off in ways much worse than he almost did, but he wouldn't keep hoping that he could catch a glimpse of you through your window. He could accept futility, but not uncertainty.

"I've seen you kill people. And I know you don't always shoot them, you've got those swords of yours... I've seen you with your torso cut in half."

"Those --- those were all people who deserved it, I don't just kill all willy-nilly."

"Who the hell do you think you are to decide -- "

You were cut off by a loud bang on your door, a rapping on your window, and then hurried footsteps dashing away outside. Your head swiveled and you stared at the point where those noises derived from; Wade stared at you with furrowed eyebrows under his mask, then turned to follow your gaze. You trudged to open the door. You saw nothing and no one once you did, but when you glanced down to your feet, a single purple $500 poker chip eyed you from the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okokokok so I just wanted to add at the end of this chapter a biiiig thank you to everyone who's been commenting! it really means a lot to mean to know what you guys think of the story, and everything has been super thoughtful and positive so far. although I can't answer directly to every single one of them, I do read and appreciate them all, so thank you very much skdfkgklfkf. and I def recognize those who comment multiple times, y'all know who you are and you all win the Internet's Sweetest People award


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARGHHHH ok ok ok ok ok. I know I p much abandoned this story for like a year, and for that I am so so sorry, but no fear, cause baby I'm back!! I'll try to be more consistent in updating, as I'm trying to get back into writing. This chapter may be a bit awkward, as I haven't actually sat and written anything worthwhile in a good long time, but hopefully it still turned out okay. I also want to say that I really appreciate all the messages everyone has left to the very bottom of my cold little black heart, even if I haven't responded to all of them (purely because of quantity), and they honestly mean the world to me. love y'all to pieces. mwuah. :) Let me know what you think! I always appreciate constructive criticism.

"Gambling problem? Never took you for the type, but I get it, with the whole ---" Wade waves his hand in circles around his face, "psychic thing. Looks like someone needs a little intervention."

The poker chip was in your hand and the door slammed before he reached the third syllable of intervention. In one fist, you clutched the tiny round piece of plastic, black and worth a cool hundred, and with the other you grasp the doorknob as if trying to keep it still and shut from an imagined force twisting it against your palm. You pressed your front against the door, hard muscles against harder wood, and you waited.

One second. Two. Three. Fifteen passed, and maybe nothing was outside, but you weren't sure and you couldn't risk anything. Your heart shook the bars of your ribs, shouting and pounding away, and although it was quiet in the room your head was filled with noises. Buzzing, hitting, breathing, drumming, buzzing, drumming, breathing, hitting, humming, whispering, yelling, and then his name. His voice. Was the poker chip there the night before? You push yourself, beg yourself to remember --- did you look out the window at all, poke your head out for even the briefest of moments? --- but you honestly don't know and that scares you. He was here last night, at your house and oh, God, he knows where you live. How long had he stayed? Had he just paused his walking for a moment and bent down, as if to tie his shoe, just to drop the chip before unfurling again and continuing on strolling past your ruddy shack like he didn't even notice it there? Or did he wait, hiding between shadows, watching in the dark blackness, knowing things you didn't, and leaving only after hours had past when night became bored and left to make way for day?

You couldn't be sure, and that struck a fear in you that nothing, not even death, ever could.

"You good there?" Wade punctuates his question with a sharp poke to your left shoulder blade and when you don't respond, with a gentle tug to your hair. That doesn't yield anything either, so he pulls a bit harder. You can hear his footsteps approach, the first is unsure and the second hesitates but he's made up his mind by the third and by the fifth he's besides you. His body is parallel behind yours and so close that he can hear your breathing and he can smell the cheap perfume you applied this morning, but it smells like lavender and it's charming in a subtle, soft way. He doesn't touch you, he almost feels like he might not even be able to if he tried. The space between you was palpable, a living breathing thing that pulsed to the rhythm of his heartbeat and pushed back against him in protest when he tried to get closer.

"Shit, you're not crying, are you?"

You weren't, not yet, only because if you cried then you first had to admit that there really was something wrong. 

"Should I play some Fergie? You know, Big Girls Don't Cry? A masterpiece."

A sharp yip escaped your lips, and he thought you might have laughed just then. But then you rotated around, nudging back that living space, and faced him with downturned eyes and an agitated bottom lip that read of an impending storm.

"... Please stop." That was the first time he can remember you telling him to stop, outright stop, just like that with no pomp and circumstance or banter or anything, and the hit is harder than he thought and hoped it would be. It twists his stomach up into a tight ball and his mouth shuts.

"I'm not crying," you continued, "You shouldn't worry. Please don't. Someone must have dropped this, that's all, and... I don't know. It reminded me of someone. That's it."

"You know I don't gotta be a psychic to tell you're lying, right?"

Your mouth worked faster than your brain when you told him, "I know. I just... can't tell you right now. Please."

"I can help you, if something's wrong," he says, before he tiptoes deeper into something that both of you knew but neither wanted to say, "I _am_ your soulmate."

Your lips tightened. "I know. I'm perfectly aware."

"Good."

"Fine. So I'll tell you some other time. Come back later."

He left for the day and the second your door shut, you wished he had stayed. It was too quiet.


End file.
